If the bandit camp had been a village, this was a metropolis of violence.
The convoy crested in the final hill, and the wagon-what was left of it-ground to a halt. Below us, the Forward Base sprawled out across the valley floor like a sleeping beast that had eaten the landscape.
It wasn't just a camp. It was a scar on the earth.
Thousands of tents were arranged in a grid so precise it hurt my head to look at. Wooden fences bristled with spikes, and siege engines sat like dormant monsters in the mud. The smoke from hundreds of smithies rose into the sky, joining a cloud of industrial grey that hung over the valley like a shroud.
To my 'sight', it was blinding.
The air above the base was a chaotic storm of mana. I saw thousands of Rank 1 and Rank 2 auras moving in rhythmic unison-white particles flowing like rivers of light through the arteries of the camp. It was a mesmerizing, terrifying display of organized force.
But it was the center that terrified me.
Rising from the stone keep in the middle of the camp was a gravity well. A massive, crushing column of Blue Mana that distorted the air for miles. The General. Just looking at it made my chest feel tight, as if the air pressure had suddenly doubled.
"Behold," Clement whispered, his voice trembling as he clutched his wooden holy symbol. "The grinder."
"It's big," I admitted, shifting my weight. My boots sank an inch into the mud, my new Alloy Flesh making me heavier than I looked. "And loud."
The noise hit us a second later-a low-frequency roar that vibrated in my teeth. The sound of drilling soldiers, the clang of metal on metal, and the shouting of officers.
"Move it, maggots!" Kael shouted from the front of the line. "Welcome to your new home. Try not to die in the hallway."
We marched down the hill, leaving the silence of the forest behind.
The approach to the gates took an hour.
We were stuck in a queue of supply wagons, fresh recruits, and returning patrols. It gave me time to watch. Time to Understand the ecosystem I was about to enter.
The soldiers passing us weren't like the bandits. The bandits-though tough-had been ragged. These men were uniform.
I watched a patrol march past. Their auras were dense-Rank 2 Iron Bone. The white particles in their bodies were woven into tight, consistent mesh. They moved with a synchronized heavy rhythm, their boots hitting the mud in perfect time.
But what caught my eye wasn't their discipline. It was their chests.
Every soldier had something on their chest-small and rectangular.
I focused on a passing Sergeant-a man whose aura was a solid slab of Rank 3 density.
Burning inside his iron tag was a throbbing drop of Red Light. It wasn't mana; it was Vitality. Someone had pricked their finger and dripped blood into the metal to bind it.
The blood in the badge vibrated in sync with the Sergeant's heartbeat.
Identity, I realized. But also ownership.
I looked further up the line. A Captain was shouting orders at the gate guards. A Yellow Core pulsed in his chest-an Earth Mage.
His badge didn't hold blood. It held a smoldering drop of Blue Mana.
I followed the invisible thread of that mana. It pointed straight toward the central keep. Towards what I assumed was the General.
It was a chain. Soldiers - Sergeants (Blood) - Captains (Yellow Mana) - General (Blue Mana)
I was curious to why I hadn't seen any trail of Green.
"They brand everyone," I muttered.
"Marking the flock," Clement said softly, wiping sweat from his bald head. "So the Shepherd knows which sheep are his."
"Or so the Butches knows which cuts are prime," I countered.
My stomach gave a violent, hollow growl. The march was burning through my reserves. My muscles felt stiff, crying for fuel. I needed meat. I needed calories.
Finally, we reached the gates.
The Sorting was less of a military procedure and more of an industrial quality control check.
We were herded into a muddy courtyard inside the perimeter walls. At the front of the line, a Quartermaster sat behind a table, a stack of blank iron tags in front of him. Behind him stood the inspectors.
"Tags!" the Quartermaster shouted, his voice bored. "Do not lose them. If you die, this is how we know who to stop paying."
The line moved slowly. I watched as farm boys were handed spears and pointed toward the infantry tents. I watched as the sick and the lame were pointed toward the latrine digging crews.
When it was Clement's turn, the inspectors paused.
The first inspector stepped forward. He was a Mage-a Lieutenant with a Orange Core that flickered with impatient heat.
He raised a hand, and a wave of scanning mana washed over Clement.
"Decent mana sensitivity," the Mage noted, writing something on a scroll. "But no core. Intelligence seems intact. He can read?"
"Scripture," Clement said humbly.
"Medical Corps," the Mage decided. "We need people who can read labels and bandage stumps. Move him to the support tents."
Clement looked back at me. His pale yellow aura rippled with worry. He offered a small bow, a silent prayer on his lips, before he was shoved toward a group of men carrying stretchers.
"Next!"
I stepped up.
The Sergeant looked me up and down. He frowned. To him, I looked like a twelve-year-old boy.
He reached out and grabbed my arm. He squeezed.
He expected soft child-flesh. What he found was Alloy.
The Sergeant's eyes widened slightly. He squeezed harder, his knuckles whitening. My muscle density didn't give. It felt like he was trying to crush a car tire.
"Hmph," the Sergeant grunted. He slapped my chest, the sound dull and heavy. "Dense. Very dense. Good stock. He's built like a brick shithouse."
"Infantry?" the Quartermaster asked, hovering his pen over a ledger.
"Maybe Vanguard," the Sergeant mused. "He could hold a tower shield. Kid's heavy."
The Mage Lieutenant stepped closer. "Let's check the plumbing."
He raised his hand. A wave of Mana washed over me.
It felt like a cold win blowing through my ribs. I stood perfectly still, letting him look.
The Mage frowned. He leaned in closer, his aura spiking with confusion.
"What is this?" he muttered.
He focused on my chest. To him, my body must have looked like a disaster zone. He saw the darkness where my meridians used to be-melted,ruined pathways that led nowhere. He saw the inert, broken rock of my old Red Core. And he saw the strange, heavy sludge of my blood, thick with trapped energy.
His face twisted in disgust.
"Broken channels," the Mage sneered, pulling his hand back as if I were contagious. "Melted meridians. He's a failed Mage. Probably tried to force a breakthrough and cooked himself from the inside out."
The Sergeant looked dissapointed. "Does it affect his strength?"
"No. If anything, the scar tissue makes him tougher," the Mage said, wiping his hand on his robe. "But he's magically inert. He can't cast, he can't circulate mana, and he won't respond well to standard healing potions because his pathways are slag. He's a dead end."
The Sergeant shrugged. "Meat is meat. If he can't use magic, he can carry things."
The Quartermaster looked up. "Designation?"
The Mage waved a dismissive hand. "Logistics. Guard duty for the supply depot. Put him with the Heavy Lifters. They need mules."
The Quartermaster grabbed a blank tag. He pricked his own finger, letting a drop of blood hit the metal, binding it to the unit's signature. He tossed it to me.
I caught it. It was heavy. Cold.
"Logistics," the Quartermaster barked. "Tent block 4. Move along, dead end."
I clutched the badge. I felt the thrum of the blood signature inside it-my new leash.
I watched the Mage turn away, dismissing me as trash. I watched the Sergeant move to the next recruit.
Logistics, I thought. Supply depot.
My stomach growled, a violent reminder of my biological reality.
Supplies meant food.
I looked at the badge, then at the sprawling chaos of the camp. I wasn't a Vanguard. I wasn't a Medic. I was a Mule.
"Perfect," I whispered.
I walked toward the Logistics sector, my heavy boots sinking into the mud, ready to find out just what kind of supplies I was guarding.